The evening started at eight when Rachel texted Call me!
I picked up the phone and dialed. She was startled almost speechless and then scrambled out a bunch of information about where and when to meet. That was immediately, in the town centre, and I was still in my pajamas so had to rush to make it in time to have drinks with Jean and Peter.
We ate some sushi, then walked over to Rosie’s house where we proceeded to drink far too much champagne over jolly conversations with academics and the occasional visiting sibling.
When it was time to depart for the next party the whole house followed us to Sidney Sussex, where I had an invitation to a party – though not necessarily accompanied by twelve party crashers. Nikolai was surprised but gracious and I wandered around, chatted with Magnus, brokered an arranged marriage, had a highly entertaining conversation with a town planner, and drank too much red wine.
The youngsters were extremely well-behaved, presumably because there were actual grown-ups present (in the form of professors and department chairs), which was interesting to observe.
My behavior does not change based on whether or not a figure of authority is present, no matter how critical that person might be to my career. In fact, historically I have misbehaved in those situations.
The pub down below has closed so there was no repeat of the police drama of last year. Sitting on the window sill with Rachel, the word modernity was casually used by someone or other and Anil said Isn’t that a tautology?
I replied I refuse to debate vocabulary with computer scientists!
But he requested a definition of postmodernism and Rachel delivered a swift and concise lecture, cigarette in one hand and glass of wine in the other, teetering precariously next to an open second story window.
Conversations about love and treachery caused a person who knows the country to say Life is like a road in Afghanistan. There are many twisting turns and you never know what will be around the next corner.
A Russian woman explained that in her country the custom is not to make resolutions, but rather to make a secret wish, that you must not talk about even if it comes true. I told her that I did in fact get my wish for 2006, and refrained from commenting that the cliche be careful what you wish for proved painfully true.
The party emptied out in the wee morning hours and we followed Rachel to a borrowed flat one floor up, where we met Jean and Peter, who had been drinking absinthe all night.
There was much hilarious drunken chatter and then it was time to cycle toward the river at dawn. 2007 started auspiciously, laughing with friends.
I did not make a secret wish.
Happy New Year!